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Tonight, my heart aches for Tehran — not as a capital, not as breaking news, but as the city that once held eight of the most formative years of my life.

I am not from Tehran, but I lived there long enough for it to become a part of me. I walked its restless streets as a young student, carrying books and hope through the gates of its top universities. I grew up there — intellectually, emotionally. I collected memories like fallen leaves: some golden, some torn, all unforgettable.

Tehran was never mine — not by birth, not by roots — but somehow, it became my city too.

And now, I watch it from afar.

Frightened.

Wounded.

Held hostage by fear.

There’s a special kind of sorrow in witnessing a city that once educated you,

suffocate under years of silenced truth — pressed down by the weight of dictatorship.

I feel helpless. My hands are empty — only my prayers and words remain.

And strangely… the heartbreak I’ve carried in my personal life feels quieter now.

As if my own sorrow has taken a seat in the shadow of something greater.

And I believe…

The end of night is not always a sunrise —

Sometimes, it’s a pale, humble dawn,

whispering gently through the rubble,

“You’re not alone. You’ve survived.”

Tonight, I send my love to Tehran,

to every sister, every brother, every stranger, every soul still standing in the dark,

waiting for the light.